


Discipline

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Deep Throating, Dom/sub, Episode: s01e09 Trou Normand, Hair-pulling, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Sexual Abuse, Rimming, Someone Help Will Graham, Sorry Not Sorry, attempted fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need your discipline. I need your help.” D/s AU of 1x09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> Tale as old as time for this couple, I know. But I couldn’t resist. I’m new to the Hannibal fandom! Just finished watching season one. I would like to write more Hannigram so please let me know if you like or are willing to edit future works. Title of this and overall mood comes from NIN song. :)

“Do I need to call my lawyer, Will?”

Surprise permeates the cogs of his brain, a sticky and slowly spreading ink stain. The small note of emotion he doesn’t normally hear in Hannibal’s voice draws his gaze, and for one moment his eyes meet Hannibal’s. The warmth, the _feeling_ , he sees is grounding. Will exhales.

He trusts Hannibal, he needs to. Yet even with the other man telling him the truth about Abigail, there is this weight still lingering, the weight of what Abigail has done. Will lets the psychic tar of it, the garbage sack weight-- shift to him more comfortably, as if he himself had been the one to stab Nicholas Boyle. He supposes this is the fatherhood Hannibal spoke of, or some version of it.

Will shakes his head without making a sound at the question Hannibal has asked. Hannibal is helping them, both Abigail and Will. He won’t be the one to punish him for caring for Abigail as he does. And Will, he alone can be the gutted and the murderer at the same time. He always is. 

“We can tell no one,” Hannibal warns. Will returns to the window, feeling both hollow and numb from the stream of his conflicted thoughts. 

“What we’re doing here is the right thing," Hannibal murmurs, suddenly close and letting his hand rest comfortingly on Will’s shoulder. 

“In time, this will be the only story any of us cares to tell.”

Will anchors himself to the simple touch, wanting more than anything to believe. 

Then Hannibal’s large hand is sliding down his arm, moving away. The warmth of their contact fades quickly, like an imagined touch. 

Please, Will thinks. 

He’s unaware that he has spoken aloud until Hannibal goes still. 

“Will?” the other man asks expectantly, curiosity clear in his voice.

Something about the poised calm of the other man gently nudges him to speak again, against his better wishes and anxiety. His mind drifts from its sand moorings as if through a cool breeze.

“I need help, Dr. Lecter,” he says. The admission makes his face crumple as soon as it is spoken. He feels Hannibal watching every minute twitch he makes as if he’s under observation glass. 

“I am dissociating. Just like you said. And my dreams. They’re getting bad,” he adds with a shaky laugh. "Sometimes I feel like a paper bag filled with water, dripping and leaking everywhere."

Hannibal’s large hand is back, touching his back this time. The other man rubs a small circle into taunt muscles of the blade of his shoulder, near the pucker of his stab scar. Will’s eyes close.

“How can I help Will? Just tell me how I can assist and I will do it.”

“I need...”

For a second, Will wonders if he ever truly lost it, if Hannibal would help him hide the body like he helped Abigail. Yes, Will thinks, he would.

It’s not the kind of help Will wants from Hannibal, he doesn’t need him in that way--yet it compels him on. He swallows around the thick, barbed word he wants to say, trying to speak and expel it at the same time. “I need... Discipline.” 

There’s no going back. 

Hannibal’s eyebrows raise delicately.

“I need your discipline.” Will takes a full and long shuddering breath. “I need your help, Hannibal.”

The use of his first name does not go unnoticed by Hannibal, nor does the small flex of his fingers on Will go unfelt. The seconds of silence stretch and Will’s face heats, still Hannibal’s hand is _touching_ him, the contact between them not breaking.

“To be clear,” Hannibal begins after the smallest pause, “are you asking me to engage in a dominant and submissive relationship with you?” 

“Yes,” Will breathes, mouth twisting to a grimace, he won’t dare look away from the window now. “Am I disgusting you?”

“No,” Hannibal says gently. “Not disgust... I find you to be very beautiful.”

Will scowls, automatically rolling his eyes to see Hannibal’s face and be let in on the joke at his expense. But there’s nothing to laugh about on the other man’s face. Hannibal’s wide lips curl pensively at the sight of Will. His eyes are large and luminous and feel as if they’re swallowing Will whole.

"The truth is, I have often wondered if you would ever trust me enough to inquire about this."

"You knew?" Will asks, heart fluttering to a pitter patter. "You don't mind?"

“I have had my suspicions about your needs,” Hannibal says kindly. He thinks to a moment to himself. “If we do this, I prefer we have a contract. Nothing too technical, just to establish our limits and boundaries and your absolute consent. There must be a safe word as well.”

Will huffs out a laugh. 

“You’re serious? You’ll help me with this?”

The troublesome ethics of his request, and Hannibal fulfilling it, go unmentioned by Will. If Hannibal doesn't mention it, neither will he.

"Unorthodox methods have never concerned me, not when it comes to helping a friend," Hannibal says sincerely. “And I am as serious as the grave when it comes to helping you, Will.” 

Relief filters through Will’s mind like falling leaves and he smiles. In his mind’s eye, he sees the shades so clearly and vividly, the gold, the orange, the brown with the slight and ringed edges of red, like Hannibal’s deep eyes.

“I know your mind has had a bit of a shock this evening, but I believe you would like to move this forward quickly?” Hannibal asks gently, breaking the silence. His hand is still glued to Will’s back. 

Will nods. “Yes.” He licks his dry lips and flushes when he notes how Hannibal tracks the movement.

Hannibal gestures backwards to his desk. “Please, sit.”

Will crosses the room cautiously, hyper aware of Hannibal behind him.

The two men sit and Will forces his eyes up, to meet Hannibal’s thoughtful gaze. He owes the other man that.

“Tell me about your last D/s relationship Will.”

Will jerks. He looks down at his legs. They look knobbier than usual.

“It wasn’t... elective,” he finally manages. His eyes are lowered but in his peripheral vision, he can still see Hannibal waiting and sitting calmly. Again, that slight twitch of his fingers, a tell betraying his interest. Will resists the urge to lick his lips again.

Will knows that Hannibal would find it unseemly to pry into this Pandora’s box of his sexual history. The doctor prefers that delicate details such as these should be given, not taken, after all. The thought surprises Will, it doesn’t feel like something he would’ve thought about Hannibal on his own. In Will's experience, psychiatrists get off on prying and for some time, he thought that of Dr. Lecter, before changing his mind. Hannibal's interest in him feels utterly alien and different, down to its very marrow. It comes from some other place yet to be discovered. 

“What about your preferences? Your likes and dislikes?” Hannibal asks. He leans forward, bringing Will's attention to him again. 

“That’s fair,” Will mutters. He rubs the scruffy line of his jaw as he thinks and tries not to think of certain things. “No marks, or at least no obvious ones. No fire or drugs.”

The scratch of Hannibal's pen on paper is the only sound in the room other than Will’s breathing. 

“How do you feel about a scene where I tie you for my pleasure solely?” Hannibal asks. 

Will swallows. He still can’t drag his eyes up from his knees. “Bondage is OK if that’s what you mean.” 

“Good. And may I touch you in ways that might be... painful?”

“Yes,” Will whispers, legs pressing together tightly. 

The notebook closes and Will drags his eyes up. 

Hannibal smiles playfully, but with a hint of dark promise that is not lost on Will. “We are finished for today, Will. You’ve been through a lot. My recommendation is that you go home and sleep as soon as you are able. Tomorrow I expect you back here for our normal time. Do not be late.”

 

~*~*~

Will arrives at Hannibal’s office the next evening, full of nervous energy. He's a few minutes early, and he takes the time to sit in his car in the parking lot, taking cautious stock of himself. His unquiet mind is now clear at least about Abigail, and he feels a new confidence when it comes to the security of the teen girl. He and Hannibal can take care of her. Help her. And Hannibal can help him, anchor him in turn. Keep Will from separating further from reality. 

Will has dabbled in this sort of thing before, dominance and submission, but he knows this time is different. He knew exactly what he asked of Hannibal, he knew what he hoped to gain from the other man’s complete control of him. But it’s been a while since he’s fooled around with a man. And Will is painfully aware of how far Hannibal is out of his league.

Dr. Lecter is sitting calmly at his desk when Will knocks softly, then nudges the door open. The other man barely looks up from his notebook.

“Come in Will,” he offers kindly, noticing Will’s hesitation.

Will crosses the room, feeling the cold AC blast his skin and Hannibal studying him at the same time. He can practically feel Hannibal making a mental note about his wearing his glasses. _Avoidance of intimacy, even with sexual partners._ Will suddenly wishes he had worn more clothing too. A sweater would've been nice. He sits across from Hannibal, trying not to fidget.

“I have the contract,” Hannibal says. “Make sure you read every line. You will need to add your safe word before you sign.”

The clean and thick vanilla paper is passed to him across Hannibal’s expensive desk, their fingers briefly meeting. 

Will looks down at the contract, forcing himself to read the words, the lines. Hannibal's neat print becomes a blur, of course the entire thing is hand written, but he forces himself to at least pretend to look like he’s reading. Every now and then a familiar words leaps out at him--discipline. Bondage. Fire. 

He forces himself to look focused, wouldn’t want Hannibal to change his mind after all, deciding that Will is too much of a flight risk. Will waits what he feels is the appropriate and believable time necessary to read the papers, shuffling them carefully before he takes the proffered ballpoint from Hannibal. He scrawls his safe word and then signs next to Hannibal’s elegant signature. 

“OK,” he exhales nervously. 

Hannibal’s face shifts once he holds the contract again, sees Will’s name next to his own. There’s a cold sort of eagerness that surprises Will.

“I am going to make a copy of this contract for you, Will,” Hannibal says. “And then we will begin. When I return to this room, I want you to be stripped down to your under garments. I want you to be on your hands and knees by the window.”

The part. He’s playing the part already. The big bad Dominant teaching his sub a lesson. Will feels his blood surge. 

He nods, eyes lowered to the floor as Hannibal’s leather shoes grow quiet. 

The office is empty and he’s breathless. He undresses quickly, not wanting to displease Hannibal with his slowness. He had thought about it a little last night, wondering what was in this, this request from him, for Hannibal. A variety of answers came but he wasn’t sure of any of them. Why had the man helped Abigail? A sense of responsibility? Is that what he felt for Will? Hannibal had called him _beautiful._

He could believe the man felt some desire for him. Though Will was far from being a confident man, he had never had a hard time finding a sexual partner, at least for one or two encounters. Relationships on the other hand, he seemed to repel-- like oil to water. No matter what he did, he felt like damaged goods in that department. It is good in that way then, that his and Hannibal’s relationship would continue to be tidy. The contract proves that. Whatever happened between them, it would stay professional. 

Hannibal’s interest could be nothing but, ultimately, Will reminds himself. Only so many boundaries could be crossed with him, even with a contractual confirmation. Will feels a steady comfort in that. 

Off comes his pants, which he folds neatly by his button-up shirt. He nervously pats his undershirt, feeling the slight, cool dampness to the material. He is too shy to remove it and besides Hannibal asked him to keep these clothes on. The shirt molds to him, his nipples already poking through the thin material. 

Nothing Hannibal hasn’t seen before, Will realizes. That time the doctor had brought him breakfast...Will’s face warms and he wonders if Hannibal had thought of that moment at all since.

 _Fuck._ He’s taking too long. Will scurries away from Hannibal’s desk, going to the window. He sits on his ass below the stripped curtains, with his head lowered before finally forcing his body into the tabletop that Hannibal demanded. 

By the time Hannibal returns, Will can feel the cold sweat slide down his back. His muscles feel tight. 

Hannibal makes an appreciative noise but Will doesn’t dare respond.

“Look at me, Will.”

Obediently, Will forces his gaze towards Hannibal and over the rim of his glasses. He doesn’t quite reach the other man’s eyes but he sees the other man’s slow and satisfied smile.

“We’re going to have to work on that,” Hannibal chides. “I expect eye contact from a good submissive or he will be disciplined.”

Will quivers, all the way to his dick. Fuck, he’s already hard. He doesn't remember when that happened. He wildly wonders if he managed to disassociate in the time Hannibal was out of the room. Already, his shirt is sticking to his back and he’s _wet_. Except for his lips that is. He licks them roughly, trying to bring moisture to the cracked and parched skin.

“Look at me.”

Will... can’t.

“Well then, if you want to act a child I am going to have to treat you like one. Crawl to me.” 

"Dr. Lecter," he says, the sound a small and thin gasp inside the large room.>

The other man wants Will completely submissive to him, to lay prone at his feet. Will’s knees lock with a sudden and intense want that he doesn't know how to answer for himself.

“Will,” Hannibal warns. “You asked for this.”

 _Yes._ He did. Will breathes heavy and then slowly nudges his hands and knees forward on Hannibal’s gleaming floor. His dick thrums, brushing insistently against his belly and leaking, with every measured inch he crawls. His arousal at his surrender is so strong it distracts him from the hardness of the wood under his palms. Will might as well be floating, he feels so lightheaded.

When he reaches Hannibal’s polished shoes, he whimpers slightly. He’s embarrassed, knowing he’s fully on display for Hannibal. 

With his eyes half closed, he presses his cheek into Hannibal’s strong thigh, rubbing it like a cat would. His hands move up, curious and explorative. Again, he wonders how far this can go, what unorthodox things Hannibal will let him get away with. He feels like a child, testing his limits.

But his hand barely touches the side of Hannibal's groin before a strong hand snares his hair, pulling his head back violently.

“But... I thought...” Will manages to gasp, his eyes burning from the pain in his scalp.

“I did not give you permission to touch me, Will,” Hannibal says coldly, his voice clipped. “You were not a good boy.”

“Please,” Will begs, gaze darting furtively up.

Hannibal looms large above him, looking both malevolent and serene at the same time.

“I won’t sully our relationship that way.”

Will groans. “I don’t mind,” he says, not as embarrassed by the throatiness of his plea as he should be. 

His neck is arched back, uncomfortably so, and his chest is completely bared to Hannibal. For all of his shaking, Hannibal considers him coolly.

Then, with his free hand, he strokes the side of Will's face, warming his cheeks with a surprising caress. The touch is soft, lighter than the brush of a silky feather. Hannibal's thumb slips over Will's lower lip just once before dropping to his chin and then further down his throat. 

From there, Hannibal ever so gently rubs the pad of his index finger against his shirt, finding the hard point of Will’s aching nipple. The wet fabric of his tee drags roughly against his sensitive flesh, sending a wave of goosebumps up Will’s arms. Then, without warning, Hannibal’s eyes blacken and in one vicious squeeze, he pinches Will’s nipple though his shirt. Hard. 

“Fuck,” Will huffs, his hips bucking up. The twin pains of his hair being tugged one way, and his nipple being tugged the other, merge, bringing a stunning oblivion to him. 

"Oh god," he gasps as Hannibal clamps down as hard as he can on his puckered flesh. 

"Let go," Hannibal orders. 

Like that, Will comes helplessly, untouched erection spurting under his boxers.

He maintains his upright stance, just barely, quivering under Hannibal’s shadow as the other man’s fingers gradually loosen in his hair and his tee. After a moment, Hannibal gently slides his crooked glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, Will?” Hannibal asks. 

Will nods wordlessly and unsteady. Slowly, Hannibal bends and guides Will to a standing position. He maneuvers Will to his love seat casually but painstakingly, as if Will had merely tripped, instead of crawling the floor of his office to come in his own boxers at the other man’s feet. Will feels boneless and relieved. His mind is blissfully blank. 

He wonders if Hannibal will let him sleep here for a few hours. 

“I think you will benefit greatly from this extension of therapy,” Hannibal says thoughtfully. The words sound far away and Will tries his best to focus. His eyes drift open.

“And you? Will you benefit, Dr. Lecter?” he questions sleepily.

Hannibal graces Will with a generous, warm smile. “Yes. More than you will remember, at least this time.”

 

~*~*~

When Will wakes again, he is in his own bed, unsure of anything until his palm is against his heart. Hesitantly, he touches his nipple, nearly gasping at how sensitive and bruised the flesh is. 

The simple comfort of his own pain, given to him by Hannibal, guides him back to dreamless sleep, with his dogs snoring gently around him.


	2. Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a plot for this in my mind. I swear. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Song for this chapter comes from Meg Myers "Desire." Isn't it the most Hannigram song that ever Hannigramed? I think so.

“Will?”

He looks up from the midterm he is a grading, a small smile on his face when he sees Alana. His friend and colleague has the slightest flush to her apple cheeks, her eyes bright as she purposefully walks under the recess lighting of Will’s lecture hall.

“Just wanted to check in with you, you’ve been so busy,” she says. Will stares at her blankly. “Jack has had you away a lot lately,” she clarifies.

“Yeah, there’s been a few... unexpected cases I’ve been assisting with,” Will says. His mind wanders to places that seem farther away than they actually were. “New Jersey yesterday and the Eastern shore of Maryland the day before that. You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I think you would’ve liked all the little ponies in Chincoteague.” 

Alana grins, steepling her fingers. “Ooooh ponnies. So much more fun to think about than grisly murders,” she says. “But I take it that’s not all that’s occupying your time.”

Will shrugs. He doesn’t feel like supplying the other reason for his recent distraction--his new and already rather consuming D/s relationship with his psychiatrist. Yes, that has been _tying_ up his time. 

“Any Ripper updates?” Alana questions, filling the sudden silence.

The stag. He thinks of the ravenstag with sudden and crystal clarity but it does not appear. Will coughs, gathering papers.

“No,” Will says. He has all of the midterms he needs to grade tonight, the rest he can get to tomorrow, after he sees Hannibal. He _needs_ to see Hannibal. Distantly, he hears a crow caw. Ideas filter into his brain. “I think the ripper must be taking a brief hiatus. It’s like... he’s bored or biding his time or something. 

“He’s lying in wait,” Will adds after a beat, rather compulsively.

Alana frowns. “But you, you’re doing OK?”

Will pushes his glasses up his nose, giving Alana a long stare. He doesn't mind eye contact with her. “Alana, what is this about?”

“I guess Jack mentioned that you seemed to be more _stable_ and I wanted...”

“And you just had to come see for yourself?” Will supplies abruptly. Alana is instantly abashed. Will holds his hand up. “It’s true, I am feeling better. But don’t worry, you’re off the hook.”

“ _The hook_ Will?” she questions shyly, but he knows she knows exactly what he is referring to.

Will grins ruefully and gently ruffles the hair at the back of his neck with one hand. “I just mean that I um, started a relationship with someone a few weeks ago. So you won’t have to worry about me awkwardly advancing on you anymore. Sorry about that actually.”

“Will, I never thought...” Alana trails off, then starts again. “I wasn’t...”

Technically, he wonders if he's lying. He and Hannibal don't have a real relationship in the sense Alana assumes but the story sounds good. It's a small dishonesty. From the corner of his eye, he sees Alana looks neither relieved or upset. Will is grateful.

“It’s OK,” Will adds. “Truly.”

“Well, is this person good to you?” she questions.

“Yeah,” Will swallows, at a momentary loss for words.

A whirring kaleidoscope of images and sensations spill through his mind--Hannibal tying him up with thick ropes, Hannibal blindfolding him with a silken slip of fabric... And Hannibal, ever the gentleman, always making Will come so hard he nearly blacks out. 

“I’m getting what I need,” he adds finally, knowing Alana’s inquisitive brain is going 10 miles a minute to figure out who his mystery partner is. 

“I’m glad Will,” she says kindly after the slightest pause. Yet an ice thin veneer of concern remains on her Snow White-like features. Will wonders if that will ever go away.

He doesn’t think so.

“Just keep taking care of yourself,” Alana says. “Keep letting this mystery person take care of you if that's what you need,” she grins. “And don’t let Jack work you too hard.”

*~*~*~

“Will, it appears I have no choice but to discipline you for this... temptation.”

Will whimpers at the words, his dick leaks and his legs squeeze together, actively trying to repress his orgasm. He hadn’t been trying to make Hannibal punish him, all he wanted was to return the favor of pleasure. He just wanted to please Hannibal.

“Why won’t you let me suck you?” Will asks brokenly, because it's part of the game. “Please?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows quirk slightly in a nearly unaffected way, but Will, face level with his crotch, can see he’s hard. God, can he see. 

He’s on his knees again at Hannibal’s undoubtedly expensive shoes, just like the first time they were together, and his mouth is watering. If Hannibal could just unzip his pants and let Will’s trembling mouth _taste_ , Will is pretty sure he’d come without any more simulation at all. Not that Hannibal has ever had to do to much for that to happen anyway. Will knows that he is touch starved, embarrassingly easy.

“You have quite the oral fixation,” Hannibal says.

Will flushes, somehow knowing Hannibal is again wondering about the other D/s relationship Will mentioned back when this thing between them started. Will still doesn't talk about it.

With gentle fingers, Hannibal caresses the side of Will’s face, forcing his gaze up. He runs his thumb gently across Will’s parting lower lip.

“It’s one of my little secrets that I have an oral fixation as well,” Hannibal murmurs. “I wonder how would you feel if I instead indulged my oral fixation on you, Will?”

Will’s dick throbs before he can even bring himself to speak. Thick and selfish desire overrides him, robbing him of his earlier tit-for-tat notions. Licking his lips, Will tastes the tip of Hannibal’s finger. His eyes dart up to Hannibal’s face. His dominant’s lips are curled thoughtfully, not punitively. 

“Yes, please,” he breathes. “I would like that.” 

Hannibal’s eyes are as dark as shadows. “I want you to go sit on the edge of my desk with your underwear off.”

“That’s hardly sanitary,” Will blurts out without thinking. It’s meant to be playful but Hannibal’s response is anything but.

The larger man grabs his hair, hard. Will yelps in surprise, sounds like one of his dogs does after he accidentally steps on one of their tails. And then just as suddenly, Hannibal releases him, letting Will lose his balance enough to fall back... as if he indeed is a bad dog. Will raises a hand to his aching scalp, ruefully staring up at Hannibal. 

“Do not test me, Will. Get up.”

With shaking hands and legs, Will stands. He won’t take off his under shirt, Hannibal didn’t ask him to remove it. He gets out of his boxer shorts fast as he can, watching Hannibal watch him. It’s funny how at moments like these, Hannibal’s eyes become even more dark and black.

It’s funny what sex does to a person in general. Even the most dignified of people, like Hannibal. Desire makes him look like a shark. _Hungry._

When Will is sitting on the edge of the wood desk, Hannibal nears slowly, like a hunter trying not to frighten his wounded prey. Will’s legs spread invitingly. He’s nervous but he’s been in this position before for Hannibal so he knows the nerves threatening his synapses are irrational. Just another unwanted emotion.

“You look very lovely like this Will,” Hannibal says.

Will’s face warms. “You always say that,” he mutters.

“I say it because it is true.” Hannibal looks down at Will’s erection and traces one finger down its wet seam, all the way down to his scrotum. Will sighs, head falling back. Hannibal nudges his balls gently with his palm and Will gasps in surprise, when one of Hannibal’s finger moves even lower, to his perineum.

He’s not sure if it’s his state of mind or some urgency in Hannibal, but things seem to speed up. Hannibal presses one hand to Will’s chest until he is lying down flat on his desk, all the while simultaneously lowering his mouth to Will’s weeping cock.

Hannibal’s mouth is hot and soft at the same time, and he can’t help it-- Will’s back arches off the cold desk. He knows better than to thrust though, not unless Hannibal allows it.

Hannibal continues his wet exploration, licking and sucking him tenderly, so delicately. The other man takes the time to swirl his tongue over his head before taking his shaft fully into his mouth again and hallowing his cheeks out around him. Christ, Hannibal really knows how to do this. Hannibal repeats his slow tease several times, leaving Will panting.

Sweaty hands clench and unclench. He wishes he could touch Hannibal’s hair but he doesn’t want to displease the other man, and ruin the game. His nails cut into his palms and the pain is distant and faraway when the skin breaks. Breathing heavily as Hannibal swallows him down again with that wide mouth of his and sucks him tight, Will's senses overload, pressing off the edge of something big.

His toes curl, knees jerking. “Please Hannibal, can I please...”

Hannibal pulls away quickly, glancing up at Will with fondness. “No,” he says. His tongue drags against his lips, tasting Will’s precum. “Not this time. I fear I have spoiled you.”

Will gasps, lifting his head up to stare at Hannibal in shock. 

“You won’t let me come?” he groans, reaching down for his cock. He’ll jerk himself off, he doesn’t care if it’s humiliating.

Hannibal violently strikes his hand away and traps it against the desk. He brings his face close to Will’s, his hands, legs and hips pinning Will down. 

“You complained about what I gave you,” Hannibal says sternly. 

Wordlessly, Will shakes his head. “No, I didn’t meant to. Please.”

“Regardless of your intention Will, I am going to have to punish you for that too.”

Will’s heart sinks. “No, please don’t,” he begs from underneath Hannibal’s body weight. The other man is surprisingly strong on top of him, there’s a brute physicality to him in this moment that turns him on more than it should. 

“Stay there,” Hannibal commands and then he is pulling away, leaving Will unanchored. 

Will watches from his spot on the desk as Hannibal dabs at his mouth with an elegant and embroidered handkerchief obtained from the pocket of his pants. He turns his back to Will momentarily and when he looks back at Will, he’s holding a small box and there’s an eagerness to him that Will only sees Hannibal display when the man is serving his various and elaborate menus of gourmet and homemade foods. 

Hannibal stands where Will can see him fully, and opens the box towards him. This tells Will the box’s contents aren’t as important as Will’s reaction. He wants Will to _see_.

And Wlll stares, open mouth. He can’t speak.

Inside the black velvet is a dark blue butt plug with a gently flared base. The tip is exaggeratedly enlarged, bulbous even. Its curved shaft appears to be about two inches thick and four inches long. In all honesty, Will's had bigger things penetrate him, he's had anal sex with one other man before, but not like this, and not with Hannibal.

Hannibal barely notes Will’s distress. He removes the butt plug from its box delicately, as if it is a piece of expensive and refined art. 

"I wanted to get one made of glass, but it wouldn't do if something happened to you and it broke inside. Too risky," Hannibal says with a rare grin. "Of course, medical grade silicone will do just fine."

"Only the best, huh."

What else is there to give you?"

Hannibal stares at him for a long moment, gauging Will's stillness, before he produces a slim and discreet tube of lubricant from the pocket of his slacks.

He then lubricates the smooth silicone of the butt plug from base to tip, lovingly.

“Bring your knees up,” Hannibal tells Will. "I intend to make this comfortable for you as possible."

“Hannibal, you can’t mean,” he sputters, stomach clenching. His cock is still hard, too hard. “You can't just leave that in me. That will hurt!”

“Will, you are being dramatic. This is much smaller than most penises, including my own.”

Will flushes. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, wasn’t even sure Hannibal would let him entertain the idea.

“Your knees up,” Hannibal repeats. “I won’t ask again.” He holds up the butt plug by its base. It shines in the darkness of Hannibal’s office, wet and ready. 

Will’s hesitation churns inside of him. He can’t quit. Can’t just say his word. Not yet. So he obeys. He tucks his knees against his chest, knowing full well how exposed that makes him. 

Will feels the weight of Hannibal's stare. His mind opens to it like a blossom, empathy receiving rare and fleeting contact with Hannibal's emotions. The other man feels appreciative towards Will, of all things. It's not just his body, his vulnerability is _savored_ like a precious gift.

But that doesn’t fit, doesn’t make sense. It’s Will that breaks eye contact, closing his eyes with a deep exhale. Hannibal moves quietly and efficiently. The fine wool of his pants brushes against the edge of Will’s ass as he comes close. 

In the end, Hannibal’s nudge to his hole is much warmer than expected. It takes Will a moment to realize it’s Hannibal’s long fingers, just beginning to explore him. The initial caress is brief. Hannibal pushes one lubricated finger into the tight ring of Will’s ass. Before Will can feel the slight sting of expected pain, Hannibal is in so deep. Curling his finger. Beckoning inside him.

“Fuck.”

Will whimpers, rocking his hips upwards for more as Hannibal rubs forcefully against his sensitive prostate again and again. It’s relentless. His legs quake, falling open.

“Hannibal, fuck,” he breathes as Hannibal continues to massage and torture his prostate simultaneously. His dick is leaking all over his belly and all he wants is more. He bites into his lips hard to stop from crying out but can't stop the way his back and hips arch, his shirt hitching up to his chest. 

It’s not long before Will feels his hole stretching more--two of Hannibal’s fingers scissoring into him, making space. Then, just as quickly, Hannibal is gone and something more blunt is pressing against his slick hole.

He shivers, trying to buck away from it, but Hannibal is in between his legs and he can only close them so much. The silicone feels unnatural, alien. In a daze, he feels Hannibal start to work the thick toy inside of him. He’s so... careful. Will knows he is making an effort not to hurt him. Still, the blunt tip makes him gasp, eyes widening as his body stretches to accommodate it. The actual shaft slides in much easier. A broken noise slips from Will’s mouth before he can bite it down.

Hannibal experimentally moves the toy inside of Will, slides it out then back in again smoothly, letting Will hear the wet sound of his body’s acceptance of the intrusive object. He hates to admit it but he feels good. And judging by the hint of smugness curling Hannibal’s lips, the other man knows exactly what he is doing to Will. 

Will moans, wondering if Hannibal will let him come this way, with this strange thing inside of him, without even touching his cock again. But before he can even get fully adjusted to the toy inside of him, Hannibal is pulling away. Will expects total emptiness along with his aching hard on as his earlier mentioned punishment, but he’s surprised yet again. Hannibal is straightening up his barely mussed clothing as if nothing has happened and he has left the butt plug deep inside of Will.

“Hannibal? Are we... finished for today?” Will asks. He doesn’t ask if Hannibal forgot something. 

Hannibal spares him a glance, brows raising inquisitively. “Yes, you have worked hard enough for today. How do you feel Will?” 

Will tries to think clearly, tries not to writhe like a desperate fish on Hannibal’s desk. His legs still aren’t work properly. “I feel... very full. I would like to come,” he says as calmly as he can muster. 

“Hmm. Unfortunately, you did not earn it this time,” Hannibal says. It's not cold, just matter of fact. 

Wincing, Will raises up slightly to lean on his forearms to see Hannibal... arranging papers, of all things. 

“You’ll have to keep the plug inside of you until later this evening when I can remove it,” Hannibal says distractedly. “I am having a dinner party at 8 p.m. If you come by at 7 p.m., that should be enough time.”

“Fuck Hannibal,” Will pleads. He hasn’t moved another inch. He’s kind of afraid to with the thickness of the silicone still so deep inside of him. “You’re just going to leave me like this?”

“Yes.” Now Hannibal focuses on him, giving him his full attention with his eyes twinkling.

It’s an offering. To Will. Their game. 

Will knows Hannibal is enjoying this... deeply. Orgasm or no. Sadist, definitely. Masochist? He wonders. Why else go so long without asking for anything? Hannibal is... interesting. 

“Originally I had planned something different for you,” Hannibal admits. “Another kind of therapy. But I think you should know I find this one to be far more enjoyable.”

*~*~*

 

“Yuck,” says Bev, wrinkling her nose. “That’s a nasty one.” She gives Will a worried glance, just the slightest betrayal of professional focus.

“I wonder if she was a former gymnast?” Price questions. 

“Don’t be gross,” Zeller groans, waving his bloody blue gloves around with a disgusted gesture. “This is like a Playboy centerfold from Hell.” 

“I said nothing “gross”,” Price retorts. “Are we in middle school again? If so I will so kick your ass in dodge ball. I was merely wondering about our vic’s occupation. It could be an important detail.”

“Just go back to looking for prints,” Zeller says.

“She was put this way to humiliate her. He wanted others to know who she was,” Will says. His voice is crisp and cool, it stands out amid the chatter and uncomfortable joking of his colleagues. 

Three sets of eyes flick to him with surprise. Yes, Will realizes with a little surprise himself. He can sense the killer of Becky Morris, the young woman who has been murdered so skillfully and left in a cheap motel in the bad part of downtown Baltimore for local police and the BAU to find. And there’s so much thick, cloying emotion here for one small room. Too much emotion for the ripper. Yet the anger and hatred for Becky doesn’t entirely _reach_ Will. It trickles ever so slightly into his consciousness before slowly ebbing away, swept off by some other dark tide. No matter. The point is, it doesn’t consume him.

"We're looking for a former admirer. Not a boyfriend. A stalker of someone sort. Someone she rejected," he continues. And Will is surprised to find... this time was easy. He feels okay. 

As long as he doesn’t fidget too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me here- http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/


	3. Hunter's Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more of the plot is coming out. It's hard to find under all that sex but it's there... sorta! ;)

Will knocks once but doesn’t wait. It’s not like he means to be rude, he just doesn’t spare the time to think about boundaries. His own are vanishing every time he’s with Hannibal. So Will walks into Hannibal’s house, ears already perked to the noises coming from the kitchen.

That’s where he finds him. 

Hannibal greets him with a nod, hands busy with a large ceramic dish. 

“Will,” he says courteously. The elegant lines of his jaw and cheekbones are serene and completely dispassionate. If there’s any guilt or remorse in him from forcing Will into wearing a buttplug and withholding his orgasm before he had to go work a crime scene, Will doesn’t see it.

He takes off his jacket so he has something to do, and lays it on the back of Hannibal’s barstool. Watching Hannibal continue his cooking without pause, Will takes a moment to find composure, trying to still his twitching and sweaty hands. He breathes in the air of Hannibal’s cooking; it’s somehow spicy and peppery but also savory with comforting notes of herbs. Carefully, Hannibal sprinkles some spices onto his dish from a small blue bowl with his fingers. Will is struck by how much he likes to watch Hannibal at work, likes to see him focus on whatever he puts the sharpness of his mind to.

Only hours before Hannibal had been _working_ him and the current feeling of fullness Will has as a result from those efforts can’t be avoided. Hannibal slides his meat-filled dish one handed into the center rack of his oven. Then he dusts his hands off on his pristine apron before he looks at Will again. His gaze lingers on Will’s rumpled hair and clothes before he studies Will’s expression. Will doesn’t know what he sees. 

“If you won’t tell me I must ask,” he teases at Will’s silence, licking his lips. He starts to gather his prepping dishes into a rather expensive and high-tech looking dishwasher. “How has the past three hours been for you?”

“Hmm, let’s just say you have a knack for timing. Jack called,” Will says, biting at his fingernails and trying not to think about the toy in his ass. It feels as if his stomach is clenching around it. “Luckily, this crime scene was on the other side of downtown in Cherry Hill. Didn’t have to go far.”

“I did not anticipate that Jack would call you Will.” 

“I know, how could you?” He ruffles the back of his hair with one hand, Hannibal watching him patiently. “It wasn’t... that bad though. I was uncomfortable, yes, but strangely... _grounded_ ,” he says, rolling the last word off his tongue with emphasis because it so unfamiliar. “Hard to get too deep into the mind of someone else when someone has already gotten into you.”

Hannibal makes a small amused sound. “I have not _gotten into you_ Will. And when I do, I promise you will know.” 

Will flushes. Unbidden, he wonders if the toy inside of him is Hannibal’s way of saving a space. _Making room._

“Judging from your posture and expression you kept your end of the bargain,” Hannibal says thoughtfully. The shadows and lights cast strange shadows over his long cheekbones as he comes to stand before Will.

“Yes,” Will whispers. Hannibal traces his lower lip with his thumb and Will can’t help it, he turns his head slightly, nuzzling Hannibal’s rosemary scented palm. So easily his arousal rekindles. The murder he saw only an hour before fades even more in his mind’s eye, becomes less of an active crime scene and more of antique photograph. 

Hannibal’s breath skates along his mouth, demandingly bringing him to the present. Then they’re kissing fiercely, lips sucking and biting. Hannibal’s artful tongue is in his mouth, making Will completely full of him. He feels his skin light up like a candle burning at both ends. Sweat curls down his spine.

It’s not long before Will’s pants are shoved down and he’s pressed up against the kitchen counter. Hannibal sighs at the sight of the plug, still nestled tightly in his ass. “Oh Will,” he says. “You were very good.” Will trembles at the slightest slip of composure in Hannibal’s voice, the small tone of wonder bleeding into his thickening accent. 

“Please take it out,” Will mutters. He lays down submissively against the counter before Hannibal asks him to, his cheek hot against the stainless steel. He figures if Hannibal didn’t mind him on his desk, he probably won’t mind him doing this. 

His hunch pays off. 

“You look good enough to eat,” Hannibal says. He gently brushes his fingers over the back of Will’s thighs, and then, feather light around the taut skin of his stretched asshole.

Will whimpers, pressing his body against the unforgiving clinical steel. He’s hard and it’s uncomfortable with no place for his erection to go but he can’t bring himself to care as Hannibal slowly begins to remove the butt plug... only to thrust it back inside again, the blunt tip coming to rest against Will’s raw prostate.

There’s a wet sound and his eyes squeeze shut with embarrassment. “Hannibal,” he pleads.

Hannibal removes the silicone plug. Will isn’t sure what he expects to feel but it isn’t an aching emptiness. Unconsciously his back arches, body offering all that it is to Hannibal. A cogent thought strikes him: This act, it isn’t so much about discipline or the mindless search for pleasure and comfort, anymore as it’s just about _needing_.

Will isn’t left empty for long. Hannibal’s long fingers tease his sensitive rim before two are inside him. Then, before Will can draw a complete breath--three fingers, deep and searching. Will’s eyes roll with pleasure when Hannibal brushes his prostate again. He rubs the nerve firmly, with precision. When Will’s eyes slit open, Hannibal is watching. The man’s face is lined with intensity and focus. God. It reminds him of the elegant doctor in the back of the ambulance, his hand in another man’s body. That was when...

Hannibal’s fingers rock into him, curling and then stretching. Will’s brain short circuits. Dimly, he sees Hannibal shifting, the greying gold crown of his head lowering to Will’s body. Will feels his breath ghosting along his skin. And then without preamble, he feels Hannibal’s tongue. The determined muscle thrusts into him, wet and exploring. His tongue fits into the channel inside Will's body achingly well alongside his fingers. 

“You...” he chokes. “Hannibal.” Can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Hannibal might as well have wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed. Hannibal withdraws but he still hovers, considering. With one hand gliding to Will’s hip, Hannibal tugs him down, freeing his cock from the hard counter. 

“Don’t try to talk,” Hannibal commands tightly, breathing against his sensitive flesh. “I want you to pleasure yourself Will, I want you to enjoy this.”

Will bites at his lips, fumbling hands against the counter to get down to his erection. To obey. “Oh god.”

His hand is rough and dry but he’s beyond it. He can feel Hannibal opening him wide again with his fingers to taste him better, to lick more deeply inside. Will feels mortifyingly loose, not just physically, _christ_ but emotionally. Like a boat without harbor, he floats on the pleasure that Hannibal gives him with his hot mouth. He is drifting to the edge of something big when Hannibal pulls away again, breath puffing against his hole.

“You are more delicious than I dreamed,” Hannibal says before adding three fingers back inside again.

Whimpering with his palm against his mouth, Will feels the slight burn of Hannibal adding a fourth finger. It doesn’t stop the violently jerking rhythm of his hand on his own cock. Four fingers and, then, somehow more. It hurts. The pain doesn’t help this time.

His mind splinters. The rest comes in fractures. Hannibal adjusting his wrist for a better angle. His prostate, too much too soon. A thumb nudging Will’s tender hole, trying to find space to push in. There’s no more space. “You’re going to break me,” he pants. His vision is hazy and he tastes salt. Hannibal’s voice comes from far away.

“I’ll put you back together.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Will sobs. “D-don't.”

He is in the field. It is dark. There is no house. He opens his eyes again. He is on a couch he doesn’t know. The material is scratchy, it is not stainless steel. His criminology professor is _doing things_ to him. Will is 28. He closes his eyes. 

“Nola. Please. Nola.”

Hannibal’s face flickers in the black. The stag is there with him. The warmth fades. 

~*~*~*~

“Will?” 

He’s being shaken, something cold on his head.

He jerks and finds Hannibal above him. His brownish amber eyes are larger than Will remembers. 

“Hello,” he says. He rubs his head, then realizes that is not where the dull pain is for once. He stares down at himself, momentarily dumbfounded. He is laying against Hannibal’s kitchen counter. There are several kitchen towels around him, offering him some small layer of cushion against the steel.

“I... I dissociated.” His voice cracks. 

“Where did you go, Will?” Hannibal forces his gaze up.

Will heaves a large breath, trying to shake cobwebs from his past. His mouth quivers wildly. “No. I can’t.”

Hannibal sets down a baggie filled with ice, lips pursing. Will remembers where those lips were. 

“I apologize for causing you distress.”

Something dings. The oven.

Abruptly, Will sits up. “Oh christ, your dinner party...”

“Will, Will,” Hannibal says, holding up his hands. “It was only Jack and his wife and now they have cancelled on me. I suspect because of this murder in downtown Baltimore. Do not worry about that right now.” 

Will’s shoulders quake. Hannibal’s concern, the stroking hands, the searching eyes, it makes him feel so strangely lightheaded.

“Shhh,” Hannibal says, he strokes Will’s hand gently. “You will be alright. I am your paddle remember?”

Will huffs out a small, trembling laugh. He looks down at himself, rolling his eyes. “And this boat is seriously warped. I think you should get a refund because I’m so messed up I'm still hard.”

Hannibal glances down with an arched brow. “It seemed indelicate for me to mention it. But I believe it is natural and nothing to be alarmed about.”

Will's not alarmed. He's delirious.

“I want to have sex with you,” Will says. “I want to make you come. I know I’m your submissive, but this is getting to be rather extreme torture, Doctor. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this.”

Hannibal smiles softly. “You are not ready yet. But we will explore that. In time. You will need to share with me where you went tonight, of course.”

Will groans with disappointment, his body is heavy with it. His mind won't stop buzzing. One of Hannibal’s hands drapes against the back of his sweaty curls. It fits so smoothly around his skull, like a missing puzzle piece. Their mouths touch, softly at first, then with growing hunger for one another. Will lets it consume him again. Hannibal doesn’t try to penetrate his sore hole but his hand glides perfectly on his cock.

In the end, it doesn’t take much to get Will off. But it doesn’t quell his ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! Also there's a small preview of the next chapter on my Tumblr if you're hungry for more- http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/


	4. Even Deeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left after this!

Sleep has become an out of reach shore. Ever since he last saw Hannibal. Will heaves a sigh. Even his ceiling feels worn from his tired gaze.

He refuses to look at the glaring numbers of his alarm. His toes twitch and wet sheets stick to the back of his thighs. He should get up for a towel, maybe it would help. But he doesn’t move other than involuntary shakes. It’s as if he’s withdrawing from Hannibal, a drug that he does in fact need.

Groaning, Will throws an arm over his eyes, wishing the memory would stop replaying. Hannibal trying ever so delicately to reach into him from the inside out. Hannibal, somehow, _knowing_ the one thing that would... shoo Will like a fragile finch from the precarious perch of comfort he had found. Was that the point of this dance between them? Was Will that obvious? That wounded? In the time he had known Hannibal, the doctor had done more than pinpoint his bad cologne, he had scented his madness and his pain with the exacting precision of a surgeon. No, an _artist_. Something more was lurking beneath the surface, a visage just beyond the frost.

The other man had somehow sent him hurtling into the past he had tried so hard to forget. Will couldn't help the paranoia in him that wondered if there was any intent, any purpose to it. The thought tore into him like teeth. If his paranoia rang true, why? Why do any of it with... him? Just to show him his own emptiness? Was it supposed to help?

The ceiling blurs, thin as an egg shell as it dissolves to blank space. Will’s thoughts drift until unconsciousness claims him, not sleep exactly, but the greying oblivion of exhaustion that slowly fades to brightness. 

It’s blinding. 

“Snap out of it Will,” Jack barks. “We’re burning daylight. Tell me what you got.”

Will shudders. He is in the woods. Thick trunked trees with bare limbs hover above. Below is more bare limbs and blood. Wild splatters of it barely dried on leaves and twigs. He realizes he is holding his glasses and slides the frames back on. As if for the first time, Will’s eyes flit from the arm, the foot, the beckoning fingers. A torso that looks like it has been kicked a few times, bruised and muddied at the same time, lays beside a pile of discarded organs. He sees but doesn’t see the remains of the victim’s penis. The helpless looking flesh looks as if it has been _savaged_. Will surveys the scene behind his plastic frames as coolly as he can, yet he can feel his breath rise, coming faster like a locomotive train engine. He speaks loudly and haltingly. 

“I want him to see.”

“See what?” Jack growls. “We don’t have time for this,” he mutters to himself but Will still hears. 

He drags his eyes from pieces of human and scowls, annoyed at the other man’s rude disruption. “Me. I want him to see me. That I hold the keys. And that I... adore him to pieces.”

“You’re saying the killer adored this man?” Jack asks, skepticism creasing his forehead. 

“No,” Will grounds out. “I’m saying our killer was trying to show his... love.”

“You want me to believe this is some sort of love letter? A box of fine chocolates?” Jack says, gesturing wildly to the pile of organs and the severed penis. Will flinches, looking away. “Katz!” Jack shouts.

The other agent joins them within seconds. Frowning, Will notes her worried expression. He looks down at the body parts again before her gaze connects again with his own.

“What have we got here? Identification or so help me...” Jack asks, exasperation filling his voice.

“He was a criminology professor at University of Maryland. Jon Beaumont. He was recently put on an extended sabbatical for fraternizing a little too much with his freshman intro students,” Bev supplies. She crosses her arms against her chest and cocks her head in Will’s direction.

“So we’re looking for one of their boyfriends?” Jack asks. He looks at Will again, a question forming.

Will is already shaking his head mutely. It takes a moment for him to speak. The body parts, why does it look like the body parts are pointing at him?

“This _wasn’t_ done by someone who knew him.”

“Then what the hell are we looking at?” Jack asks, quiet and still for once. He's like a fox, catching a scent. “Is it the Ripper?”

“Yes,” Will says, because he thinks he sees the ravenstag. It moves like dusk through the barren trees. Elegantly inevitable. He closes his eyes, trying to clear the specter. “N-no. No. This kill is pure emotion. The Ripper doesn’t _feel_ like this when he kills.”

The ravenstag fades in front of his eyes, leaving only a pale shadow. “The ripper doesn’t need this kind of... release.”

He looks up at the trees again and they shift. They wrap him in leaves and branches and there is still blood. He doesn’t mind.

“Someone call Hannibal Lecter!” Will hears as he falls backwards. 

~*~*~*~

A palm smooths the hair off his brow. It’s comforting, like a mother’s touch, though Will wouldn’t really know. But he smiles, eyes fluttering open.

There is light and there is Hannibal. Right away he notes the sudden relaxation of the man’s elegant features, a domino effect beginning the moment they see each other. Something within Will unfurls like a sleeping beast. Desire. It’s been more than a week since he’s seen his... doctor. He has certainly been left wanting.

Uneasily, Will looks away from Hannibal. His gaze bounces around the room, never actually landing. His room. In Wolf Trap. He sees Jack, leaning against the barren wall of his bedroom by the door, frustration bubbling, barely corked within his thick frame.

“There’s no place like home,” Will mutters. His fingers twitch and he realizes Hannibal is holding his hand. His face warms and he pulls his hand away quickly.

“You drove me here from Culpeper?” 

“Well, what else was I supposed to do when my best agent fell into a pile of guts and body parts?” Jack asks rhetorically. “Yet the paramedics said you were passed out cold from exhaustion and needed a bed, not medical attention. Dr. Lecter here tells me you’ve missed your last two sessions.”

Will bites his lip and stares stubbornly at the ceiling again. He has memorized its fine cracks and the four spots where the paint has chipped. “I lost track of time.”

“Then I will clear my schedule this evening,” Hannibal says primly, still perched on the side of his bed. There are no wrinkles in his suit that Will can see. “These appointments are very important for all of us, Will.”

Will’s jaw clenches. He stares at Hannibal’s chin, knowing without a doubt the ‘us’ the other man refers to with his strange brand of double speak is not Jack or the BAU.

“Go tonight, or you’re off the Ripper case,” Jack warms. Will knows he’s bluffing but he nods anyway, mouth dry.

Hannibal sees his grimace and brings a cool glass to his lips. Without comment, Will tips his head back, eyes finally meeting Hannibal’s. His lips part gratefully for the water, it trickles slowly down his throat.

~*~*~*~*

After several hours of fitful sleep, Will gets into his car and drives to Hannibal’s office. He is Will Graham and he has no idea what time his appointment is.

The other man opens his door for him without resentment or displeasure. His expression is unreadable but there’s a small softening in the intent line of his mouth that Will can’t help but notice.

He squeezes past him, slouching lowly into wide open space of Hannibal’s practice. Mechanically, he finds the chair that he normally sits in and sinks into it. 

“It is nice to see you,” Hannibal says finally, coming to sit across from him. Their chairs seem closer than usual.

Will shrugs. He says nothing for a long moment. “I shouldn’t have cancelled on you last week. Things haven’t been going well at crime scenes. I’m dissociating again.”

Hannibal’s silence makes him nervous. “I didn’t mean to avoid you. It’s just, I felt like a failure. Saying my safeword like that.”

“I assure you, I only have respect for you for knowing your own limits and when they were breached.”

“Why are you so nice to me?”

 _What's in it for you_ is unsaid.

“I could ask you the same.”

Will startles, then laughs softly in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Hannibal smiles indulgently. “Why are you so fixated on my pleasure, Will? Isn’t it enough that you receive your own?”

Will leans back into the chair and licks his lips, knowing he is about to sound defensive as hell and deciding at this point he really doesn't care. “Isn’t me pleasuring you part of being your submissive?”

“No,” Hannibal considers his word choice before speaking carefully. “Being my submissive is about you relinquishing control to me.”

Will laughs dryly. “So is this your official ‘this is about you?’ spiel?” He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Christ, that must get old.”

Hannibal reaches forward and grabs Will’s twitching hand from his thigh. Before Will can even inhale a surprised breath, Hannibal laces their fingers together effortlessly. Their suddenly conjoined hands strike Will as hard as a falling brick. Hannibal’s long and pale artist fingers look jarringly good with his own roughened hands. He hadn’t appreciated the contact enough earlier this afternoon with Jack wound up like a loaded coil in his bedroom, his very own Jack in a box. Now he finally can feel this touch, this comfort from Hannibal without reservation.

Hannibal is still holding his hand when he speaks quietly. “There isn’t anything old about this for me, Will.”

“Well, this isn’t like the last time I did this,” Will mutters, then falls silent just as abruptly.

“You should not feel as if there is a requirement to talk about this when you aren’t ready,” Hannibal begins but Will is already interrupting. 

“No, this is about me right?” his voice is high, breath coming faster. Hannibal holds tight to him. “You should know... you should know. When I was a grad school student, my favorite criminology professor invited me over. We were talking about fucking social control theories when he put a roofie in my oolong tea, then... then he fucked me on his old couch when I was passed out.”

Wide eyed, he dares to look up at the taut line of Hannibal’s jaw. Hannibal is silent, waiting, still as a painting. Will forces himself to see, to not look away. “I woke up with him orgasming inside of me. But that wasn’t the worst part.”

Hannibal squeezes his hand but doesn't speak. It's good in a way, Will isn't telling Hannibal about this to hear anything in particular in response, he doesn't want apologies or pity. It's beyond that.

“I let it happen again,” Will says. "And again." His voice seems loud. He thinks about Professor Andersen on top of him, heavy and sweaty. He can still feel the release of the other man's pleasure in his mind like the pulling of a pin from a grenade. It's not like that with Hannibal. It's quiet, like wading into clear water. “I guess technically the fact that I let it keep happening made it consensual, huh," Will muses. "I started to crave it just as badly as he did. I wanted to be helpless for him because.... he wanted it. I wanted to please him, even though he was... what he was.”

“And how did he honor your gift?” Hannibal’s voice is distant.

“Just...” Will swallows the sand paper taste on his tongue. He doesn’t want to remember. “Standard debasement. He liked me passed out and helpless. He didn’t need or want me to participate.” 

Something dark flickers in Hannibal’s brown eyes but Will barely notes it. 

“One time he drugged me with something different than his standard go to. I couldn’t move, couldn’t _feel_ but I could see. He... used his whole hand. Got it inside me and tore me up pretty good. It’s foggy now,” Will says, but conjuring the memory nearly brings him back to Erik’s bed. He can nearly feel the other man’s heavy breath on his shaking thigh, the cursing as he calls Will a slut, a cocksucker. The gruffness of the other man’s voice comes to him so vividly. It’s like he’s there again, free falling into the black hole of his memory without a safety net. 

Will wipes away the gathering wetness under his eyes with the back of his hand. “He said I looked good bloody.”

“He was reckless with you.” Will startles at Hannibal’s forceful voice. “I suppose that was the end of your... relationship?”

“Yes,” he says. “I was in pain for days. Couldn’t move. Combination of the drugs he gave me and all the other things he did, I guess. I dropped his class after that, and he gave me an incomplete. I didn’t really care.” 

“Nor should you have,” Hannibal offers. “You were sexually assaulted Will.” 

A sob catches in Will's throat. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“It’s important that you share these details with me. You are allowed to grieve about what happened to you.”

“Why? How does it make _you_ feel _doctor_?” Will sounds spiteful and he knows it but he can’t stop his abrupt speech. Will looks down at their intertwined hands again, surprised to find that Hannibal hasn’t pulled away.

Hannibal considers him. “I also feel, in a way,” he pauses, “helpless. And that I was also reckless when I pushed you too far during our last session. I do not like that.”

“Why did you... what made you want to do it? Could you tell that I’d been hurt before that way?” Will laughs dryly. “Do I wear this scar so obviously among all the others?”

“No,” Hannibal removes his hand from Will’s, smoothing it momentarily down his pant legs, straightening out all of the tiny wrinkles and creases that have made their way into his suit since Will last saw him. Hannibal doesn’t speak for what feels like minutes.

“I believe the idea came to me when I remembered that moment I saw you outside the ambulance after we found Devon Silvestri,” Hannibal says. “You looked at me in a way that is hard to forget. Truthfully, I do not want to forget it. For that moment, I think, you saw me.”

Will shivers. He also remembers watching Hannibal. He was helpless to do otherwise. The desire he felt so thick out of nowhere, as if it was a stab to the gut, was the beginning of a chain of motions he never thought possible. “I saw you?”

“You saw the brutal choices I make, and the elegance and grace in them.”

Will frowns at the familiar words but he can’t place them. He is tired. “My body still aches from seeing you,” he says. He sounds bitchy, even to his own ears. Will rubs at his face. There are so many fucking thoughts bouncing away in his skull and none of them are landing.

“I wanted to please you in your kitchen last week,” he says. 

“You did,” Hannibal replies without missing a beat.

Will shakes his head stubbornly. He feels himself starting to unravel from exhaustion, too much energy lost from trying to filter rational thoughts from irrational ones. “N-no, _no._ Why won’t you fuck me? I want you to fuck me. You want to be rough? Is that it? Fine. I can take it.”

“No, Will. I assure you I do not. Not like this.”

Will’s face is still wet and he looks at Hannibal in disbelief for a moment longer than he can stomach. He lurches to his feet. “Oh god. I’m a mess. I’m going to go to the bathroom. Clean myself up, then I’ll go.”

“You are in no state to drive yourself home,” Hannibal says. His dark eyes sweep clinically over Will as he stands. “Will you allow me to drive you? I’ll take an Uber in the morning back to Baltimore.”

“That Uber will cost you an arm and a leg,” Will mutters.

“And I would give even more for the privilege of seeing you home,” Hannibal replies. 

~*~*~*~*~

It’s drizzling lightly by the time they make it to Will’s car. Hannibal patiently adjusts the driver’s seat and mirrors to his liking. Then, even his driving is steady and assured. Will finds himself lulled by the rhythm of his small and precise movements. He is so tired.

The clouds swirl above him. A hand strokes his head, it fits the back of his head like a puzzle piece. He looks beside him and sees the stag, great big eyes staring back at him. Together they are laying under the great canopy of trees, on the lap of their benefactor. The stag’s large muzzle twitches and Will realizes its chewing something, its mouth bloody. Will watches as their guardian feeds the stag more meat, raw and sticky. The stag chews. Will says nothing, lulled by the hand caressing his head.

He is warm. He closes his eyes.

He opens them again. He is in Wolf Trap. Hannibal is already coming to his side of the car and opening the door for him when he realizes he must have fallen asleep. 

Together they walk in the rain to his porch. The dogs are excited and so the first few minutes are a flurry of movement from their furry, warm bodies. 

Once inside, Will doesn’t trust himself to speak. He feels horribly self conscious. He hasn’t done the dishes or taken out the trash yet this week. Yet Hannibal, while out of place in his form-fitting and elegant three-piece suit, doesn’t seem unhappy. He surveys Will’s home thoughtfully with no trace of annoyance or judgement.

“I will go upstairs and ready the bed.”

In relief, Will nods. He realizes Hannibal is giving him a moment and he’s OK with that. His dogs are clustering around him and with shaky hands he dispenses dog food and freshly refilled water bowls. He goes outside to breathe the cool, wet air one last time while his dogs romp in the dark fields.

Before Will goes upstairs he gulps two fingers worth of whiskey. Just enough to quiet his nerves.

Hannibal is already tucked into his bed when he makes his way to his infrequently used bedroom. Will’s large goose down comforter is pulled up to his lower ribs, revealing the muscular, wide planes of Hannibal’s shoulders and chest. Hannibal is naked under his covers. Will knows it with complete certainty. He doesn’t mind. The time from Baltimore to arriving at Will’s home has taken on a strange dreamlike quality inside Will’s brain. He’s not sure this moment is real. It feels too good.

“Come to bed with me,” Hannibal says.

Will blinks. Hannibal is still there. He begins to unbutton his shirt slowly, licks the remnants of whiskey from his lips.

Hannibal watches him with hot focus, then he is pulling the cover off and Will sees everything and still somehow not enough. Hannibal is compact yet broad, hips tapering to a tawny thatch of pubic hair and his half-hard dick. 

Will looks. He watches the muscles of Hannibal’s chest catch and release with movement. His hands freeze, if this is real, suddenly he doesn’t feel _ready_ anymore. 

Yet steadily, Hannibal is taking over, tugging his shirt from his arms. They’re a blur of fabric and skin, hot mouths meeting at every pause. He has no time to think. It’s as if Hannibal has wound him up and sent him spinning into one sensation after another, with no time to process. Will the tilt-a-whirl moves with halting, nervous movements, just trying to stop from flying off the edge. His head ticks upwards, lips opening to Hannibal’s tongue with urgency and need. 

Dimly, Will realizes that the loud breathing filling the room is only his own. His mind floats like a balloon, trying to drift away but Hannibal draws him back to the room with a hard grip to his waist. 

“Think of time,” Hannibal mummers against his lips. “Think of who you are.”

“I know who I am,” he says. “I’m n-not... I’m not sure...”

Silently, Hannibal walks backwards, pulling Will towards the bed and into his orbit.

“I am your equal,” Hannibal supplies smoothly. “No matter the games we play. I am what you need.”

“Show me,” Will orders. “Make me feel it.”

Hannibal nods, eyes shining in the darkness of his room. Will is flustered by the softness there, reminded of how Hannibal looked after Tobias Budge’s rampage. Those same dark eyes, shedding dispassionate, clinical detachment like snakeskin for something like relief and hope. And Will had to look away then, still has to look away, because it is too much.

He must have spoken aloud because Hannibal strays from his lips to bite gently at the sensitive skin between his shoulder and neck.

“No,” Hannibal says roughly against his flesh, feeling Will’s shudders. “It is just enough.”

“Yes, oh god.”

Hannibal is quick, strong heels pressing into the back of Will’s legs until he’s practically falling on his lap.

“Lube in my nightstand,” he breathes, when Hannibal’s fingers snake down and stroke the back of his thighs. “Let me get it.”

Hannibal looks skeptically at the offered half-used tube of K-Y jelly and Will can’t help it-- he grins. His laughter dies quickly when with quick, surgical efficiency Hannibal slicks his fingers, smirking right back at him.

Holding his breath, Will leans into Hannibal. He closes his eyes as Hannibal strokes down the knobs of his spine to his ass. Hannibal squeezes him briefly before nudging Will’s hole. He gasps as two fingers circle then push in. He’s still a little tender and it hurts, but the sensation bleeds quickly to pleasure as Hannibal curves his fingers, already finding and stroking against his prostate. 

“Christ.” Will rocks onto Hannibal’s touch. Feels how his fingers nestle within him. He’s stretched just enough when he decides to bite the bullet, fingers reaching down to hesitantly stroke Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal doesn’t stop him. He tucks his face into the curve of Will’s neck again and growls.

Will relishes the vibrations, the other man’s vulnerability, the fragile warmth of him in his hand. He is petal smooth and yet harder than Will imagined. He needs more. He reaches behind his back, attempting to guide Hannibal’s cock inside. The first touch of Hannibal’s cock against his ass makes them both groan. It spurs Will on. Biting at his lips for control, he works himself over the fat head before the slow, firey glide down the shaft. 

“Will,” Hannibal says. He sounds choked and Will savors it.

“No more talking,” Will breathes into the other man’s hair, squeezing his shoulders and Hannibal sucks hard on his throat in response. He feels teeth again when he slams down, feels Hannibal thick and hard inside of him. He tries to find a rhythm he can maintain but Hannibal has other ideas. Firmly, he grabs Will’s hips and tilts him backwards a few degrees, adjusting the angle and their eyes meet. Then he thrusts up, fingers bruisingly tight. 

Will is wide open like this, completely exposed to Hannibal. Just like that, there is no space in the crowded arena of his mind for an escape. Strange and unconnected images drift free-- Nicholas Boyle’s frostbitten body, the girl on the antlers, the ravenstag, chewing bloody scraps from the hand, the same hand that strokes Will’s head. They’re all here with them. They’re part of this. 

With a kind of dark worship, Hannibal looks up at Will, bringing them face to face. It reminds him who he is the room with, who is truly inside him. No hiding. Will’s eyes sweep over the smooth stubble of Hannibal’s cheek. Even in the dim room, there’s the slightest amber glow to his skin and fair hair. Will is struck. The fine precision of Hannibal’s hairline at his temple and ear, the hinge of his jaw. Hannibal’s hands on his face, strong and moon-colored. Those hands he knows from his dreams.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs. He arches his back again, raising himself up and down, unsteadily and clumsily until Hannibal grabs his hips and crashes into him over and over like a battering storm.

A few of the dogs begin to whimper at the door but he barely registers it. He feels Hannibal’s fingers on his lips, stifling his cries. Everything is slick and perfect, his erection sticky between his stomach and Hannibal’s. The friction is delicious. 

“Just like that,” Will murmurs. Hannibal slides in and out of him without pause, hands descending to hold onto him like a lifeline, eyes trapped on his. It’s so good that Will comes with a loud cry, shooting hot, helpless spurts against his abdomen. Hannibal only thrusts deeper, tearing sobs from him as his pleasure flows, then ebbs. Hannibal latches onto his lips with his mouth, drawing away Will’s gulps for air as he bottoms out inside his body. Hannibal comes like that, deep and thick inside of him, like he’s taking root. Their bodies lock together, shuddering in both agony and pleasure. 

When he can get his legs to move, Will sags to the side of his bed, limp and boneless. After a few beats, he feels Hannibal untangle their legs and move off of the bed. He makes his displeasure known but Hannibal is only gone for what feels like seconds. He uses a damp rag from the bathroom to wipe away the semen on Will’s stomach and the back of his legs. Only after that does Hannibal sigh, smoothing a curl from Will’s face, before laying at his back. 

Though Will is exhausted and sore, actual sleep feels remote. His mind simmers around memories and nightmares, barely conscious. Two thoughts press on him like suffocating walls, holding him hostage: Hannibal is in love with him.

And Hannibal is a killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr- http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/


	5. Counting Bodies Like Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically Hannibal is all: _Don't fret precious I'm here, step away from the window, Go back to sleep, Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils, See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do._
> 
> Title of chapter comes from A Perfect Circle's "Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO GLAD THIS IS DONE, THANK YOU ALL. SORRY FOR THE BAD WRITING. I don't think you have to do so but I ended up going back and rewriting all of the older chapters so they were more tolerable to me so I could finish this. Nothing major I just decided to spend a little more time on writing.
> 
> Thank you comment cheerleaders, you know who you are. Thank you [LoneWombatKing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewombatking/pseuds/lonewombatking) for helping me with sticky parts.

Will wakes in the middle of the night, the air is warm and suffocating. He kicks limp sheets away from his sticky body, turning his head to look out the window. Outside, there is a numbing blanket of black. 

He can’t stop shivering. In the dark, he finds Hannibal. The other man lays awake next to him, eyes dark and raw as the sea. For one moment, Will is embarrassed to be caught staring, caught vulnerable. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Hannibal’s voice is low, heavily accented from sleep. 

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal reaches for him, one hand gliding out to rest on his heart. He murmurs soothing and foreign words into the blade of Will’s shoulder. It feels alien. 

“Just stop,” he says, shrugging Hannibal’s hands away. “Not like that.”

“Then how?” Hannibal asks, frowning. 

Will drags blunt nails hard down Hannibal’s sides.

“You know what I like,” he says. “What this whole thing is about.” His breath hitches as Hannibal wrenches his hands away, pinning the wrists down.

“Yes, I think I do,” Hannibal replies sharply. 

Limbs and fingers stroke too roughly, then shove into alignment until Hannibal is behind him, fucking him into the mattress with slick fingers. A low, almost wounded, sound torn from Hannibal’s throat when he starts to really fuck Will. He’s already sore and it feels painfully good being stretched open again, though the pace is too slow. Hannibal is deliberately drawing it out. 

In the end, there’s no urgency, no loss of self to cling to. 

Will orgasms again, remembering everything, all the horrible truth about Hannibal. 

Hannibal holds him again through the throes of his fever.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

The glow of the sun is the first thing he feels as he wakes up. He looks outside again and sees the day is deceptively beautiful. He’s also alone. Hannibal must have left already.

Blinking himself more fully awake, Will frowns and presses a pillow over his head for a moment. It turns out his body is also a liar, the muscles feel loose and comfortable, in a way they shouldn’t be. Not after what he let Hannibal do to him. He’s still sore but it’s a vague and nearly _pleasant_ feeling. Hannibal had taken so much time in stretching him each time after all.

Hannibal is methodical in everything he does. All of his kills, whether’s he the Chesapeake Ripper or its Copy Cat. Or something entirely different-- Will thinks of the kill he saw the other day, the professor who had been mutilated. That one hits close to home. It had been _meant_ for him alone, as if it were a gift. A naughty professor, served up and eviscerated, just for him. 

Will knew it last night and he still let Hannibal inside of him, both, sexually and mentally. The sex was almost forgivable. It was their relationship that had rushed out of its D/s boundaries into something far more intimate, as devastating and tender as a mortal wound. 

Will should call Jack. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he starts to get out of bed and hunt down his clothes. 

There’s a note on his dresser from Hannibal.

_Apologies for my untimely departure. I had an unavoidable errand. Would you care for dinner tonight at my place?_

Will rummages around his unused bedroom room until he finds where his phone ended up, halfway under the bed. _Fine_ , he texts back to Hannibal.

Then he gets in the shower, turning the water as hot as he can handle it.

*~*~*~*~

Will goes to Hannibal’s for dinner as promised. The time, he forgoes the bottle of wine, the small touch of etiquette beyond reach.

He lets himself in and follows the smell of rosemary and thyme to the kitchen. Hannibal is waiting for him, wearing a pristine white apron. He holds a knife.

“You know.”

Will nods. “I know,” he agrees, voice toneless.

“Are you going to tell Jack?”

A frown pulls at his lips. He goes for honesty. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”

They both know that at this point, calling Jack isn’t one of them. 

Hannibal considers him for a moment. Then, rather gently, he places the gleaming knife back down on a ceramic cutting slab.

“Before we begin our meal, I wish to give you a gift.”

Will follows Hannibal to the basement below the kitchen.

The narrow stairwell leading down is dark and he walks closely to Hannibal, matching his steps. The scent of amber and musk washes over him and almost reactively, the downy hairs on his arm and neck rise. 

There’s a muffled sound several feet away, like an animal, or a person. An overhead light flicks on.

A bloodied man is tied to a chair. Behind him, are paintings. 

It takes a moment for Will to even begin to realize the dozens of wine-colored lips and blue eyes match his own nearly as well as a photograph. The paint brush rendered faces, expressions of his imagined agony and pleasure, spin like a carousel in front of him. Everything is all lies and truth simultaneously. 

Envy cuts through him, staggering and efficient. The paintings reflect the dark soul of him in a way he cannot, does not. 

Pleading whines and muffled shouts draw Will’s attention from the canvases. The funhouse mirror effect of his self through Hannibal’s eyes skids to a halting stop. 

The man in the chair. Will knows him.

The features are swollen--bloody and nonsensical as a Picasso. Slowly, the crooked nose, the blackened eyes, begin to straighten, enough to form something cohesive. Underneath it all, there’s still something handsome and charismatic. Professor Erik Andersen. _“You like this, don’t you? Tell me.”_ Will’s stomach heaves.

“Hannibal,” he breathes. 

Erik is the one tied to a chair. He sees Will and immediately begins to shout against his gag, rocking the chair back and forth. 

Then his gaze drifts beyond Will, and Will feels Hannibal emerge from the side of the darkened room.

Erik goes silent, hazel eyes widening. 

“What is this?” Will demands. 

“An awakening.” 

“Well, you’re a little late.” Will hears himself, biting and acidic, but he doesn’t stop. “I know. Hannibal, I know you’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal cocks his head in acknowledgement. “Awareness is the greatest instrument for metamorphosis,” he says. “May I ask, when did the scales fall?”

“After we were... intimate.”

Hannibal smiles as if Will’s use of a euphemism is charming, and not an avoidance of something far more conflicting and ugly. What Will knew and when. And how he did nothing other than roll on his belly to be fucked by Hannibal again because he didn’t want to even think about the alternatives. 

“Was it the first or second time?”

Will scowls. “Does it really matter? Fine. The first time.”

Hannibal considers this.

“What revealed my nature?”

Will shakes his head. “Your _nature_ is beyond me, Doctor Lecter. There are no sets of influence or behavior that could begin to define you. Happy, now?”

“You don’t think I’m evil?”

“No, that’s too easy. Destructive, yes,” Will replies. He laughs, the sound brittle. “And also, strangely generative. But that doesn’t begin to explain _this_.”

Hannibal follows Will’s gaze to the old criminology professor.

Again, the man whimpers at the cold focus of Hannibal’s attention. Will can imagine too well what Hannibal has done. He knows exactly how well the other can hurt or torture, choosing so specifically how to leave his scars. 

“Oh, yes,” Hannibal says impassively. “I had not forgotten our Professor Andersen.” 

Hannibal advances, moving closer to the bound man, who cries against his gag even louder. Despite what they went through during Will master’s program, Erik stares beseechingly at Will. Swallowing, Will looks away. 

“Come here, Will.” Hannibal speaks cordially, as if he’s asking Will to set the table for dinner. 

“I’m not playing your game. If you want to kill me-”

“Killing you has not been my plan for a long time. I prefer my world with you in it, breathing and feeling everything so beautifully.”

Will tenses, fingers jerking. “So you want me to kill Professor Andersen? That’s not going to happen.” 

Hannibal’s face is blank, betraying no emotion -- not even the smallest sliver of disappointment. “Come now, Will,” he repeats. “Unless you want me to kill him in front of you?”

There’s a flash in Hannibal’s hand and Will follows it, sees the sharp mirror of a knife, his self captured within its gleam. Between that and the paintings, there’s too many reflections of him in this room. 

He is close enough to touch Hannibal now, or his old professor. He wants neither. 

“It can often feel good to confront those who have tormented us. It can be a valuable aspect of therapy.”

“That’s not how it works in the real world,” Will mutters, glaring at Hannibal. “I’m unlikely to get anything from him but denials and apologies that you forced and deep down, he’ll still think I was _asking_ for it. We both know how this ends.”

Hannibal’s mouth quirks. “Let’s try it, shall we? For your benefit.”

Hannibal shifts his weight, so that he is facing and addressing Erik directly. “You will do well to remember Professor Anderson, I don’t take well to rudeness, to myself or to Will.”

Professor Anderson shakes his head rapidly in silent promise. There are tears in his eyes. Hannibal removes the blood-soaked gag, none too gently. 

For a moment all the beaten man does is sob, great heaving breaths. 

Will watches. He realizes then there’s nothing he wants to hear from the man. He’s not worth the air it would take to breathe out an apology, even an authentic one.

In a way, that’s how Will’s ready for it. Erik takes one last gulp of air and then he’s lunging, the ropes around his wrists falling to the side.

His hands extend, towards Hannibal’s neck. On instinct, Will whirls, grabbing the knife from Hannibal. The end of the blade catches his hand before it slashes deep across Erik’s chest.

Blood splatters in an arc, elegant as a dance. Erik screams and tries to grab Will and he stabs him again, deeper this time and into his abdomen. The force of it causes both of them to loose their balance. Erik slumps forward and Will falls back. 

Everything happens in a matter of seconds.

Hannibal is waiting to pull Will to his chest, keeping him from hitting the cement floor the basement too hard. For a moment all he can do is breathe heavily. Gradually, in slow and shifting increments, he becomes aware of Hannibal tying something tight across his hand. 

There’s crying. He’s not sure where it is coming from.

“Hannibal,” Will hears himself say. He can’t stop shaking.

Erik lays on the floor, head turned to its side. 

“Will, Will,” he murmurs. His face is deathly pale, eyes already starting to glaze. Will must have cut a major artery, for him to bleed out so fast. Erik stares through Will, as if he is transparent as the thinning air around him. The entire front of his shirt to the top of his pants is soaked in red. 

“Will, I’m so s-sorry.”

His lips curl. “No, you don’t get to. Say you’re sorry. What you did. I don’t- _I don’t accept._

Erik’s rasping breath hitches and Will looks away.

Hannibal lifts him up, helping him step by step out of the basement. They leave Erik to the shadows.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hannibal runs a sponge over him, gently guiding him under the spray of water.

The droplets fall thin-- like mist, already warmer than his body. 

“This is a pre-set temperature. Does it suit you?”

“It’ll get the blood off,” Will says. 

He gathers enough water in his cupped hands to pour over his face. He would prefer a downpour, thick enough to drown in. 

He looks at Hannibal, his own personal tempest. He glides his soapy fingers down Will’s ribs like they’re piano keys. 

Will steps back into the wall of the shower, shivering a little from the cold feel of it, as Hannibal’s fingers smooth down the base of his awakening cock, his balls, then further still.

His head falls back against the glass and the fog of the shower water fills his eyes like tears. Hannibal circle his hole briefly before he falls to his knees in front of Will.

“You wanted me to kill him,” Will says. “You planned the entire display like it was a performance at the Baltimore theater. You probably told Erik how to get free. You knew what I would do.” 

“I thought it would be therapeutic. Was it?” 

Will ignores the question. He slides his fingers over Hannibal’s pin straight wet hair before grabbing it tightly. Deja vu, he thinks. Hannibal did the same to him once, when this all started. 

“I want to kill you for manipulating me like that.”

He doesn’t tell Hannibal how good the influence felt. 

Muscles twitch around Hannibal’s lips as he tries to maintain a serious expression. Thumbs stroking lightly over Will’s hip bones, he ducks his head, mouthing at Will’s balls. Will gasps as Hannibal takes his time, tasting each one with the fullness of his mouth. Will’s pulse quickens, his cock harder with each roll of tongue over his flesh. Only then does Hannibal respond to Will’s threat. 

“You are delectable,” Hannibal murmurs with a reverent breath. Will hears him wet the top of his mouth with his tongue. “Every inch of you, delicious.”

The words sound like a curse.

“You don’t believe I could kill you,” Will says, his voice choked. His fingers flex, unconsciously tightening in Hannibal’s hair.

“Or you don’t care if I-- Oh, if I do.”

Hannibal has shifted, his tongue now tracing Will’s cock. The assault sparks bliss in his belly, consumptive as poison. 

“I love you, Will.” 

The words are sincere. Will aches with it, gut twisting. 

He wrenches Hannibal’s head back, thrusting his cock into his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut your mouth.” 

His motion is abrupt in its violence, but Hannibal is ready, eager to please even. His lips stretch wide, cheeks hollowing as he bends forward to receive, even as Will drives his cock deeper each time, trying to hit the back of Hannibal’s throat. In his haste, he bottoms out fast. The tight, slick space feels so good, it feels like Hannibal is swallowing him.

Blinking water from his eyelashes, Will watches Hannibal’s mouth go impossibly low, fluttering against the base of his cock. There, Hannibal chokes, a dry rasping, desperate sound. Will groans, stroking Hannibal’s head as he comes. He stifles his cry as much as he can, biting his lip and tasting copper. He’s not sure if it’s his blood, or Erik’s. 

It doesn’t matter. After a moment, the water washes it all away.

*~*~*~*~*~

“You can’t keep going on like this you know,” Will says to Hannibal, hours later. They’re in Hannibal room now.

There’s a temporary truce between them -- they ate a very late dinner meal together even, only after Hannibal assured Will that he would dispose of Professor Andersen, and leave Will completely out of it. 

“Eventually you’re going to make a mistake.” 

Granted, Professor Anderson probably isn’t one of the mistakes Will means. The man had two embittered ex-wives getting a slice of the pre-nup pie as well as a slew of students beyond Will that he probably assaulted at one point or another, many of them going into law enforcement, Will already knows. 

“You can’t kill everyone that’s wronged me either,” he continues. “Nor will you get me to do it again. If you try, I will guarantee you won’t like the results.”

Will doesn’t say anything more, he doesn’t need to. 

“Even I sense that I am overdue for a change in pattern, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “Old habits do not become us. No reason for there not to be a reinvention of sorts.” He presses a kiss to Will’s forehead, then his bandaged palm. 

Will doesn’t respond in words, instead folding himself deeper into the warmth of the bed and Hannibal’s body. His headache has long since faded, his fever calmed. His traitorous body be damned. 

“Why me?”

“There is no one like you. No one will ever see or know me better,” Hannibal says. “There’s no one who I see as much of an equal as I see you.”

Will’s shoulders melt into the bed. 

“There is something I must tell you,” Hannibal says after a pause, breath stirring the crown of Will’s hair. 

“What?”

“I believe you have encephalitis.”

Will rises half way up, looking at Hannibal.

“I have what?”

“It’s an inflammation of the brain, most often brought on by a viral infection. Only life threatening if left untreated. It hasn’t gotten that progressive, not anywhere near it.”

“I know what encephalitis is.” The words are quiet, settling into the lavish bedroom with a sort of surreal stillness. “You’re telling me my brain is on fire.” 

He thinks of wandering in the woods at night, the lost and unaccounted for hours, the terrible fears, the nightmare stag, the whispered and tearful confessions to Alana, to Jack... 

From the dark of his thoughts, he emerges and sees Hannibal, feels himself grow incredulous. “How long did you know I had it? When did _those_ scales fall, Doctor?” 

“I’ve had my suspicions for some time. I admit, I have done some things to worsen your condition, that of which I regret -- wholeheartedly.”

“You, what? You... Let me get this straight. You thought that because you controlled my body, and my mind, and my health, you could control my entire life.”

Will gets up without waiting for a response. He plucks up several items of clothing and begins dressing, violently shoving arms and legs into clothing as if it were armor.

“Will. Please.”

Once he’s decent, he grants Hannibal a look. 

He wishes he didn’t.

Hannibal reminds him of the horrible moments following Tobias Budge’s attack. Weathered and tragic, maybe a part of Will had fallen then and there. Hannibal’s lips part in a frown that lines his face in deep furrows. He doesn’t speak again. Will feels the sharp sword in both of their guts. 

"This is...not acceptable, Hannibal. I can't see you anymore. I can’t trust you.”

“Punish me then.”

Will quakes, the words instantly pulling him off balance, as intended. 

Without encouragement, Hannibal continues. "Punish me for everything, Will. For all my transgressions against you."

Will laughs. It's hollow. "Even if I were to whip you to bloody, little strips, it wouldn’t begin to cover it.”

Hannibal wets his lips, contemplating this. 

“No, Hannibal,” Will says more forcefully. “You need to learn how to discipline yourself."

Hannibal's lips twitch downward. "I am adaptable. I can learn. A teacup can be made whole again," he says, then with a deep breath, retrieves a word that sounds to Will as if it comes from the darkest recesses of his heart. 

_"Please."_

Will pauses by the door, head cocked to the side. Considering.

He makes his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Variations on "Messiah" (or, Handel wept)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201718) by [thebeespatella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella)




End file.
